


Not Buddies

by Starfish



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-04
Updated: 2003-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starfish/pseuds/Starfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray wants more than Fraser has to give. Angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Buddies

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate version of a story I first posted in November of 2001. It is, in fact, the original version, but at the time I didn't feel ready to write it. Call it laziness, call it cowardice, whatever. AuK and I have talked about going where the characters take you, though, so I thought it was time to finish this. Rowan, Shay, Kat and Shell looked at it and helped me say what I wanted to. If it still doesn't work, don't blame them. They tried

  
  
  
  


He won't let me kiss him.

I've tried not to let it bother me; tried to get by without it, but I can't. It bothers me. I want it. I need it.

For Christ's sake, the things I've seen him put in his mouth --

Makes you wonder why I'd _want_ to kiss him, but I digress. 'Digress'? Jesus ...

We've been doing this for a couple of months now -- "this" being quick &amp; dirty sex in my bed after whatever particularly nasty case he's found to get me involved in has resolved itself without either of us getting dead.

He shows up at my door in jeans and flannel and without Dief, which is how I know what he's here for. Purely social visits he brings the wolf. And so I let him in and offer him a drink. Nowadays he says no, but the first time he actually said yes, came in, sat down on my couch, watched the tube. Fumbled around a bit with words before he put his hand on my leg and looked at me with a question in his eyes. A question I knew the answer to, for a change. Would I like to ... ? _Hell_, yeah.

I was a little surprised by the fact that he'd admit to basic male urges, same as I got, but I guess it's just biology, after all. A combination of too many days working on a case that went nowhere but downhill, too many nights of not sleeping right, and too many lonely stroke-sessions in the shower. Sometimes you just need to connect with another live body.

I was also a little surprised that he wanted to do something about it with _me_ \-- surprised, but not unwilling. At the time, I thought he was the best thing to happen to my bed since flannel sheets.

So I led the way to the bedroom, and we ... got off. Hand-jobs, real fast and messy. I'd like to pretty it up a bit more, but that's about what it amounted to at the time. And I wasn't complaining -- no way. 'Cause when it was over, we were still good. He cleaned us up and got himself dressed. Thanked me kindly, which made me laugh, and then he went home. But it wasn't weird, wasn't a big thing. Just us.

It happened again, not the next day, but few days later. And then again. Gradually we expanded our repertoire beyond handjobs -- shocked the hell out of me the first time he sucked me off, but I have to say, the man's got a mouth like a Hoover. And me, I've always said I'd try anything once, so he made me prove it a couple of times. But it was still kind of ... casual. We didn't talk about it after the first time -- I didn't know how to bring it up, and Fraser's a clam anyway. And how do you talk about 'last time' when you don't know there's going to be a 'next time'?

I'm not sure when it turned into more for me. Maybe that day when I thought for _sure_ he'd taken a bullet. I know I screamed his name loud enough to scare the perp into dropping his gun. Turned out Fraser was fine, but I was shaking for three hours afterwards. That night I screamed his name again when he fucked me for the first time. Made sure I knew he was alive.

And now ... I want what I can't have. The one thing we've never done.

Oh, I've tried, but he avoids it. Not in any obvious way, it's more like his mouth goes everywhere on my body but above my neck. So I've been thinking for a while now about some way to maybe sneak up on him.

Like -- right now. For once I came to before he did, before he snuck out of my bed without waking me and got dressed and left. I think about just going for it, leaning over and putting my mouth on his, opening his lips with my tongue ... and before I really even finish thinking about it, I'm doing it.

I'm doing it. I'm kissing Benton Fraser, RCMP. He's starting to wake up a little, but his mouth still feels like it's asleep. His lips are opening just the tiniest bit, like he's about to ask what the _fuck _I think I'm doing (although he'd never say the word, of course) and I take the opportunity to slip my tongue in there.

Oh. Yeah.

I don't know the last time kissing felt better than fucking, but this is ... everything. My first kiss and my first fuck (both Stella, but I'm not thinking about her right now, no way) were so long ago I can hardly remember them but this is better. This is hot and it's wet and it's us and it's NOW.

And it's over way too soon -- he's pushing me away and rolling off the bed. Trying to sort out his clothes from mine where they're jumbled on the floor. He's not such a neat-freak when he's horny as hell.

Hey, wow, one more meaningful insight into the soul of Benton Fraser. But I'm tired of rolling over for him. Symbolically, I mean. So I go for it.

"Why, Fraser?" I say, and it's not whiny, it's really not, but it feels like it a little, so I choke down on it and try again. "Why not?"

He looks at me like he doesn't understand the question, but I know that trick, I know all his tricks by now, and he's not getting away with it this time. I stare right back and he finally gives.

"I just -- can't."

Okay, so now I'm getting mad. "Yes, you _can_, Fraser. Your mouth works just fine when you're sucking me off -- or licking some God-damned piece of _gum_ you picked up off the fucking _street_ \-- what you really mean to say is you just _won't_. And my question is still 'why?' Why are you treating me like some kind of whore? That's not --"

I was going to say 'that's not buddies' when it hits me. We're buddies now, cop-buddies, fuck-buddies, whatever. But kissing? That's _not_ buddies, not any kind of buddies. That's more like lovers. A _lot_ more like. Almost _exactly_ like, in fact.

Holy shit. Me and Fraser. Me and ... _Ben_. Lovers.

And his last lover? Fucked him up and fucked him over and fucking left him for dead. That wasn't all in the files, most of what I know came from a late-night conversation with Welsh. Makes me wish the "real" Vecchio could shoot like I can. I ever see that bitch, she gets one right between the eyes. I don't care how long I go away for, she's dead.

But right now, she's not here. Ben is. Looking wounded and hurt but still so fucking brave, like he's never needed anybody or anything in his life. But I know different. I know that everybodyneeds something at one time or another. I think -- I hope -- Ben needs me.

I get up out of the bed and walk right up to him. He's already got his jeans on but not zipped, and he's buttoning his shirt like it's something real tough and he needs all his concentration to get it right. I grab his wrists and he freezes; deer in the headlights just waiting for the _smack! _of the bumper and the pain that follows.

"Fraser," I say, "_Ben_," and that gets his attention 'cause I've never called him that, but maybe I should, maybe I'll start now.

"Look at me," I say, and miracle of miracles, he does. "I'm not _her_. Don't insult me, don't demean what we have, what we _are_, by thinking I'm anything like her. Don't you ever fucking do that."

He drops his eyes and I let go of his wrists to cup his face between my hands. I stroke my thumbs over his cheekbones, and this is it, this is the Big Time, the Hallmark Moment. I open my mouth and say what I've just figured out.

"I love you."

He winces and mumbles "Don't."

Not the reaction I was hoping for.

It takes me a second, then I say, "You don't get to tell me that, Ben. You can tell me to fuck off; you can leave and not come back and tell me you don't want this anymore, but you cannot tell me not to love you. That's _my_ choice, my decision.

"What we've been doing -- with anybody else it would be just sex. Meaningless friction and sweat and come -- it wouldn't matter. But it's not anybody else, it's _you_ and it's _me_. And it fucking well matters, Ben. At least give me that. Tell me it _matters_."

My thumbs are wet now -- he's started leaking tears. I can't call it crying 'cause it's not, but it's some kind of reaction anyway. I think back to a story I loved when I was a kid -- The Snow Queen. I don't know the details anymore, but there was a kid and his heart was frozen 'cause he had a sliver of ice in his eye. Something like that. And then he cried, and it melted, and everything was fine again.

So I take a chance and move one hand down to his chest, inside his shirt, and I put it right over his heart. My left hand goes around to the back of his head and I pull forward on it so we're nose to nose.

And I whisper, "Let me in, Ben. Please."

Then I press my lips to his again and just wait.

And wait.

After what feels like about a year and a half of the waiting, I get the picture. I back off, let go, and sit on the bed. Feel like I got shot again, my arms and legs are numb, and there's this awful buzzing-humming sound all around me.

Okay. Okay. Breathe. I can do this. I took my chance, and he said no. Well, as good as. I've been turned down before, I can get through this. I can.

And then I look at him. He still hasn't moved, his fingers are holding the sides of his shirt so tight they're turning white. Oh, Christ, what did I do?

I get up again and go back over to him. He stiffens like I'm going to hit him or something, and I say, "Shh," and finish buttoning his shirt for him. I'd tuck it into his jeans, but that's a little too personal. Just trying to show him it's okay. It's not, of course, it's about the furthest from okay I've been since Stella told me we were quits, but that's not his fault. Not his fault he doesn't want the same things I want. Not his fault I'm some kind of freak who falls for his partner and wants everything and more.

"Not your fault, Fraser."

He nods, then shakes his head. I don't know if he's agreeing or disagreeing or even if he heard me, but I do know I can't talk anymore about it tonight. Not without losing it, and that's not happening anywhere Fraser can see it. Not over this. I can't lose my best friend too.

"You need a ride?" There, my voice sounded almost normal.

"No," he says. "Thank you kindly, Ray, but the walk will be ... " He stops talking like he forgot what he was going to say -- another first for the evening -- and puts the rest of his clothes on like a wind-up doll. All I can do is watch.

He turns at the front door with his polite Mountie-face on again, and says, "I'll see you tomorrow, then?" It's really a question this time, not like the way he usually says it.

"You know where to find me," I say, which is my usual answer, but with a whole new meaning now. And he nods, and I watch him walk out the door.

I realize after about half an hour that I'm still standing in the middle of my living room, still naked, still staring at the closed door. And my face is wet.

~~~~~~~~

  
_What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?_

The cadence beats through my head from my boot heels, drumming on my nerves until I want to scream. I won't, of course, or perhaps 'can't' _is_ the proper word this time. I cannot lose control; not here on the street, possibly not ever.

Or -- not ever _again._

  
_What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?_

My last glimpse of Ray burns into my brain. He looked so small, standing there; defeated by my refusal, naked in a way I'd never seen before. How could I have known? Were there clues I could have seen, if I had thought to look?

He looked so -- _small_.

He's not a bulky man, but there was always an energy that radiated from him. It made him seem like he filled all the available space in any given room. But standing in the middle of his empty, dark apartment, watching me leave, he looked insubstantial. Small. _Broken_.

I can't recall the exact words that were said, the night it all started. Can't recall how we progressed from watching the news to fumbling with belts and laces, struggling to bare more skin ... it's enough that it happened. Mutual desire, leading to mutual pleasure. A level of trust unsurpassed by anything else in my life. And Ray assured me, the one time I questioned it, that sometimes, "guys just do this." It was "no big deal."

I should have seen it coming. The Ray I know, the Ray who still pines for his ex-wife despite her rudeness, the Ray who would risk everything to right a wrong -- he is a man who feels things strongly. If I had been paying attention, I would have known he was beginning to feel more for me than I am capable of feeling for him. But -- I didn't want to know.

That is the truth, right there. I didn't want to know what he felt, because it would have made me think about what I might be doing to him. How badly I could end up hurting him. As indeed I have.

My feet have stopped now, and I search my pockets for my key before realising that I am not in front of the Consulate at all. I have somehow ended up on West Racine, in my old neighbourhood. Before me is an empty space, a vacant lot, but my mind supplies the building that stood here as last I saw it -- a burnt-out shell.

Superimposed over _that_ image is another, even more disturbing. I see the window of my old apartment, scores of candles aglow; and I see myself as I was then. Broken, or ready to break. I see my shoulders shaking, taste the memory of tears and pain. My father's voice comes, as it did then, and I am not at all surprised.

"It's over, Benton. You have to move on."

I turn, but he is gone before I can ask which he means -- Victoria, or Ray. It doesn't matter, though. His presumably well-meant advice is, as usual, useless to me.

A cab pulls up in front of me, and as I bend to wave it away, I see that it is another piece of my past. Mr. Mustafi kindly offers me a ride, and will not take no for an answer. Finally I get in, too tired to argue, and give directions as needed until I am home. He refuses the fare I try to hand him, and so I drop it on the front seat and he drives away. I can only wonder how I must look, if Mr. Mustafi will not take my money.

Inside the Consulate I am greeted by Diefenbaker, who has waited up for me. I indulge him and myself by dropping to the floor and petting him as I used to when he was still a pup. He whines and licks my cheek, and only then do I realise that I have been crying again, possibly since I left Ray standing in the dark alone. My arms close around Dief's strong body and I hide my traitorous face in his fur, and for a wonder he doesn't protest as he usually would, but lets me hold him until I feel able to move again. And move I must, it would not do for me to be found here in the morning light.

I rise to my feet and walk carefully to my office, where I undress for bed. I cannot sleep, however, and the dawn is both a blessing and a curse. I dress mechanically, numbly, and report for my duties. The morning seems to drag on forever, and yet I am surprised (and apprehensive) when it is time for me to make my way to the 27th and Ray. How will he react, when he sees me?

He greets me with, "Thank God, Fraser, help me make this thing print," and that potential awkwardness is averted. I refuse to avoid it altogether, however; and after his report is printed, signed, and presented to Lieutenant Welsh, I seize the moment and ask Ray for a private word.

His reply of "Coffee?" is typical, as is his assumption of my acceptance. I follow him outside, but instead of turning right and heading for the bakery we frequent, he turns left and walks two blocks in silence until we come to a busy deli. We enter and stand in line side by side, but apart in an unaccustomed way. I have no small talk that seems suitable, and Ray's habitual chatter is absent as well.

We take our chosen beverages to a small table in the back of the seating area. We will not be overheard in the bustle, but I keep my voice pitched low as I say, "Ray, I want to apologise."

He looks me in the eye then, for the first time today, and the pain I see nearly takes my breath. Then he lowers his head, shrugs, and sips his coffee. "No harm, no foul, Frase. Don't worry about it."

"Ray -"

"Fraser, I can't talk about it, okay?" he hisses. "Just -- give me some time, I need time. Don't do this to me; not in a fucking _deli_, not two blocks from work. I'll be fine, I will."

"Ray, I never intended -"

"Jesus, Fraser -" He stops and takes a breath, then another. Sips his coffee while his eyes plead with me to remain silent. "I never _intended_ either, all right? I know it's my fault it went too far, I know I dragged you into this, but I didn't mean ... I'm sorry, I really am."

"I wasn't dragged anywhere. What I did, I did willingly."

He nods. "Okay, so ... okay. But we can't, anymore. Right? _I_ can't. I just ... "

"Understood."

"Yeah. So ... yeah. Good. Friends still, though, right?"

He looks quite worried, as though he's prepared for me to say no. "Of course," I say instead, and he hides his relief behind another sip of his coffee.

  
And so the days go by, one by one, as they must. Ray and I still work together, he treats me no differently, and I am impressed anew by his skills at dissembling. We continue our partnership and friendship for all to see; and if I notice that he touches me less frequently, I am sure that no one else would remark on it. We have even continued our habit of occasional after-work meals together, although the atmosphere is slightly more tense, the conversation more guarded; and I decline his offer of a ride home in all but the most inclement weather.

  
Tonight is one such night, the rain pouring down ceaselessly, and the side windows are slightly fogged from our breathing. I can smell Ray's normal end-of-the-day scent, but it's tinged today with something else, a new soap, perhaps -- except it occurs to me that I've smelled it once or twice before over the past two weeks since ... that night. He looks tired, too, and then as we pull up in front of the Consulate the sleeve of his jacket slips back and I notice a bruise on his wrist which looks very much like a partial hand-print.

A flash of memory hits me -- Ray naked and panting under me, his rough voice assuring me that he likes it a little wild, _don't worry about hurting me, harder, yeah ..._

  
I blurt out, "Are you seeing someone?"

His head tilts to one side as he regards me, and a sound that might almost be a laugh comes from him. "Mostly I just close my eyes and let him fuck me, but I do catch a glimpse now and then, yeah."

"Ray, you know what I m--"

His anger flashes like lightning. "Yeah, Fraser, I know what you _meant_." I have never seen him so angry with me - he's nearly vibrating with it. "I know exactly what you meant. You want to know if you're off the hook? Am I _dating?_ Sorry, no. I wish I could, that's the God's honest truth. But I can't just turn it off like that. I'd think you'd already have realized that about me. I only ever said those words to one other person in my _life_, and I don't see it happening again. It just hurts too much." His voice almost breaks, at the end, and he swallows before continuing. "Anything else you want to know, or can I go home now?"

Numb, confused, I get out of the car. Before I can shut the door, his voice stops me.

"Fraser, I -- I wish I could be what you needed. I'm sorry I can't, I just don't know how to. But it's not your fault, okay?"

I try to reassure him; it's not his fault either, after all. "I don't need anything, Ray."

"Yeah. Maybe _that's_ the problem, then, you think?" He puts his hand on the gearshift, obviously impatient to be gone. I step back and close the door, and he drives away, leaving me alone in the rain.

I look over my shoulder at the cold, darkened windows of my supposedly-temporary place of residence, and I feel no desire whatsoever to go inside. In spite of the rain still pouring down I turn to the left and begin to walk, and to think about what it is that I need.

Three hours later I am soaked to the skin but no wiser, standing outside Ray's apartment building. His light is on, and I am nearly desperate in my need to see him -- to settle things between us, once and for all. I am terrified, however, to think that it may well be that when things are settled, it will be over - our partnership, our friendship, everything I hold dear, everything that keeps me sane.

I see his familiar silhouette pass before the window, stopping momentarily to look out into the night. I am well away from his sight, tucked under the eaves of the grocery, and I know he cannot see me, but he lingers just the same, head turning from side to side as though he is searching for something. Finally he moves on, and before I can think about what I am doing, I leave my shelter, walk to the door, and press his buzzer.

There is a brief pause, and then his voice comes over the speaker. "Yeah?"

"It's ... me, Ray." There's another pause and I think perhaps he hasn't recognized my voice. "It's ... Ben."

Another pause. "What do you want?"

Yes, that _would_ seem to be the question. If only I knew the answer. "May I come up?"

The lobby door buzzes in response. I make my way to his apartment, and find the door ajar. I knock once, lightly, then enter, as I used to.

Ray's apartment looks much as I remember it, perhaps a bit cleaner. He is in the kitchen when I walk in, his back to me. I can hear ice rattling in a glass. "Can I get you a drink?" he asks.

"Whatever you're having is fine."

He laughs, a bit unsteadily. "I'd take you at your word, but mine's a double Scotch rocks."

"Ah, I see." And obviously not his first, although I don't mention the fact.

"So?"

I draw a deep breath. Perhaps alcohol will help, in this situation. "No ice in mine, please."

He turns, sharply.   
Fraser, you don't drink."

"I've ... decided to start."

"Don't be an idiot." He comes closer. "You're soaked! What the hell happened? It stopped raining an hour ago."

"I've been thinking."

"And walking?"

I nod. He knows me better than anyone, and the thought warms me a bit.

"Jesus. Okay, come on. This is going to sound like a line from a bad porn movie, but we have to get you out of those wet things. Are you insane?"

He continues to chide me as he rummages in his dresser for something that might fit me. All he can find is a stretched-out pair of CPD sweatpants and matching t-shirt, which I accept gratefully. In truth, I am a bit chilled, although it is probably more due to nerves than the actual temperature.

I dry off and change in the bathroom, and he takes my wet clothes and drapes them over the chairs at the dinette table.

"They'll never dry like that, but at least you can get warmed up. Sit down now, and tell me what the hell you're doing here."

I take my place on the sofa next to him, and eye the glass before me on the coffee table. Two inches of amber liquid, no ice. I pick it up and put it to my lips, ready to drink, when Ray's voice stops me.

"Medicinal purposes, Fraser - just sip it, okay? Trust me."

My eyes meet his over the rim of my glass, and I take a small sip before answering. "I always did, Ray. From the first day we met."

He gives me a brief smile before dropping his gaze to his own drink and taking a good-sized swallow. "So, I know it's not a matter of you just being in the neighborhood -- you going to tell me what it's about?"

"I was thinking about what you said to me earlier."

He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? Which part?"

"All of it, really. And also what you said ... that night."

"Wow, no wonder you needed a walk. Anything else I need to apologize for?"

"No. I think perhaps it's the other way around."

He nods. "Have at it, then. Say what you came here for."

It is curious that he doesn't feel the need for the polite fiction most people would -- doesn't tell me again not to worry about it, no harm done, it's been forgotten already -- empty phrases all. Or perhaps it is _not_ so curious after all. Damage _was_ done and must be mended, and amended for, before it breaks us further apart. And we both know it.

I take another fortifying sip of the whiskey in my glass and feel the warmth burn down my throat. It is somehow sensuous -- I could grow to like the feeling. And that's another slippery slope I have no business being on.

I marshal my thoughts and prepare to begin. The first words from my mouth, however, are not at all the ones I had planned.

"This other man, Ray -- who is he?"

Ray looks as shocked as I feel at the question, and he gapes a bit at me before saying, "I'm not sure it's any of your business, Fraser."

"Nevertheless -"

"Nevertheless my ass." He shakes his head in disgust, whether at himself or me I couldn't say. "He's just some guy, okay? Nobody you know." His voice drops lower. "Nobody _I_ know."

"Ah. I suppose I hadn't realised you were so ... adaptable." My mouth does not seem connected to my brain at all now.

He's up off the couch immediately, fists clenched. "No way, Fraser. You don't get to be jealous or -- or -- whatever that is."

I open my mouth to deny the charge of jealousy ... and realize that I can't. Possibly I could say that I was motivated by fear for my friend's safety, and possibly Ray would believe that. But it would not be the whole truth, by any means. While I try to puzzle it out, Ray continues.

"You made it perfectly clear you don't want what I was offering. So I got a right to sleep with who _I_ want. And you, of _all_ people, do _not_ get to lecture me about casual sex."

"You cannot compare -"

He cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Yes, I can. And you know what? At least it doesn't feel like a lie every time we fuck. I get mine, he gets his, game over. Sound familiar?"

"That's not how it was --"

"That's _exactly_ how it was for me, Fraser. You never once even stayed the night." He begins to pace, his bare feet slapping against the floor where the rug doesn't cover it.

"Diefenbaker -"

"Could have come along and you know it. Next excuse?"

I'm floundering now, this is not what I had planned. "Your colleagues -"

He stops mid-stride and gives me a withering look. "_Please. _I wasn't asking to march in the Gay Pride parade with you. I didn't want to get matching t-shirts or anything. It wasn't anything to do with _anybody _except you and me." He leans against the wall near the window, arms crossed, hands tucked into armpits -- an obvious defensive posture. "And I was perfectly happy to not talk about it anymore. But you know what? You brought it up, so you can finish it. Either tell me the real reason, or get out."

Faced with such an ultimatum, I am left no choice. As uncomfortable and awkward as it makes me feel to say this, Ray deserves to know it was never his fault. After a couple of false starts and another sip of whiskey, I finally say what I came here for.

"I can't lose myself again."

"What the hell does that mean?" His voice is not as harsh as the words, and I struggle to keep going.

"When I -- with Victoria -- " I see his face close at the sound of her name, but I must explain. "She made me forget who I was, Ray. And for a while I thought that was a _good_ thing. I thought 'This is what it's like to be just an ordinary man.' I was so ... _free_. I called in sick to work, and the world didn't stop spinning. I forgot Ray's party, and he didn't hate me. But then I started to forget other things. I lost track of who I was and ... I almost became who she wanted me to be."

"And you think that's what it's like with me?"

"No, I -- you don't understand."

"You're damn right I don't. I can't believe you could compare me to her. When did I ever ask you to even _slightly_ compromise your principles, huh? And don't bring up Volpe, either, because that was _your_ idea."

I shake my head. Somehow I have failed to explain it properly. "Ray, I _don't_ compare her to you, not like that. I'm afraid of what _I_ would do. It's obvious that my self-control is a thin veneer at best, and I need to keep it intact, or risk losing it entirely."

He's staring at me in confusion, and I must finish what needs to be said. "It was never that you didn't matter to me, Ray. I can't have you think that. You are my best friend, and my partner. And what we were doing -- the s-sex," I wince as I stumble over the word, "I thought -- I never meant to hurt you. I wish that I could be what _you_ need. But I don't know how either."

"What _I_ need?"

I nod. I don't trust my voice at the moment.

"Fraser, that's -- that's _nuts._ I don't need anything special from you, just -" He stops, and pushes away from the wall. He walks over to the sofa and sits beside me again. "Remember that day at the cemetery, we were talking about why we were cops? And you said something poetic about truth and justice and tucking in the kids at night -- _that's_ what I need, Fraser. I need somebody to remind me that it's okay to have ideals. I need to know that I'm not just dreaming when I think I might be actually making a difference with what I do for a living. You give me what I need every _day_."

He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes briefly. "You said you trusted me since the day we met, right? So trust me on these two things -- first, that 'thin veneer' isn't covering up a sociopath. You're not going to run amuck if you let go once in a while. And second, I got your back, buddy. No matter what."

He pats my back, and gets up. "Okay, I think that's enough angst for now," he says with a wry smile. "You need a ride home?"

I blink at him. Now _I_ am confused. "That's it? But -- shouldn't we settle things?"

"What's to settle? We're still friends, still partners, right?"

I nod, and he reaches down to clasp my hand and pulls me up to stand next to him.

"Okay, then. The other part is ... extra. I can live without you in my bed, Fraser, but I do need you for the rest of the stuff." He shrugs. "So I'll take what I can get."

"Oh. I see. Yes, well then ... "

I know my tone of voice betrays the sudden bitter disappointment I feel. I had thought that Ray would ... fight more about this. It suddenly seems he has given up far too easily. I look down at our hands, still joined between us, and loosen my grasp.

Ray's grip tightens, however, and he gives a small tug on my hand. "Hey -- what's wrong now?"

"I -- nothing. I thought ... it doesn't matter." I hear a sigh, and sneak a look at his face. He is wearing the half-smile I remember, one I haven't seen in weeks.

"Jesus, you are the most aggravating -- _what?_ You gonna make me interrogate you?"

Now that he is back to his normal teasing self, I feel a bit safer in saying, "I thought you'd argue with me a bit more."

The smile is gone now, replaced by a puzzled frown. "What -- you _want_ me to argue about this?"

"Well, not 'want' precisely, but I had expected it somewhat. It _is_ your usual mode of operation."

"Yeah, when I'm right and you're wrong. This isn't a case, Fraser. This is way more important than any case I have ever investigated. And we don't have too many hard facts in front of us. Just one -- you told me how you feel, and I gotta respect that." He peers into my face, with an intensity I've only seen him use on felons and other miscreants before. Slowly his brow wrinkles.

"You _want_ me to argue about this." Then he shakes his head. "Fraser, I don't -- this could get real ugly, real fast. I can't do it."

Feelings and thoughts that have been spinning in my brain begin to coalesce. With sudden conviction I say, "You have to."

He drops my hand and starts to pace again. "Why? You tell me that, okay? Why do I have to risk what we still have? Because you _know_ it's a risk, Fraser. You haven't seen me full-out pissed-off at you yet."

"Because ... I think it's possible that ... you're right and I'm wrong."

He whirls about and stalks back, stopping directly in front of me. "Promise me," he says fiercely. "You fucking well _promise_ me this won't tear it all apart."

I know I can promise no such thing, but I nod anyway, and he pushes me back onto the sofa and follows me down, straddling my lap and pinning my shoulders back with his hands.

***

I can't believe I'm doing this. And I know if I fuck it up, th  
t's it; bye-bye friends and partners, no matter what he promised. Dammit, he's asked me to do some stupid shit before, but this has to be the topper.

"All right, Mountie, all aboard for fun time, then. That was all bullshit, before, I was just too polite to say so. You _were_ comparing me to that bitch."

His eyes get wild. "No, Ray, I -"

I give a little push on his shoulders and he shuts up. "Yeah, you were. Not like I was like her. But the way you _feel_ \-- you were comparing that. Otherwise you never would have brought her up. Right?"

He's staring at me like I just recited Shakespeare at him. In Latin. I cock an eyebrow and stare back. "Right?"

"I ... concede the point."

Crazy fucking Mountie, can't say one word when four will do. It drives me nuts sometimes. "Thank you kindly," I say sarcastically. "So. Benton. Did you love her?"

Jesus, and I thought his eyes were wild before? If I wasn't sitting on him he'd be out the door and halfway to Tick-tock-whateverthefuck by now.

"I thought I -- it's possible that -- I believed -- I may have --"

Oh, my aching ass. "Benton. No more bullshit, okay? There is no _thinking_ involved. I want a one-word answer. Did you love her?"

"I don't --"

"Fraser. That's two words already. Last chance. _Did you love her?"_

  
_"Yes!"_

Wow, that hurt. Rocks me back a little, but I shake it off and keep going. "Yeah. Yeah. I thought so. So why her and not me, huh? She hated you. She tried to get you killed. Is that what you want, Fraser? Is that what you _need?_ Or is it just because I'm not a woman? Is that the real story here? Can't be in love with me 'cause I don't have tits and long hair and smell pretty? Either way, you're out of luck. 'Cause I can't do that. I can't hate you, and I'm not getting a sex-change for you. You want me, you have to take me the way I am."

He looks a little stunned, but I'm just getting warmed up now.

"Or is that the problem? I'm just not good enough for you? I don't always get the words right, I can hardly speak English, let alone French, and I never know which fork to use. I'm just a working guy, not educated or even _nice_. Yeah, you'd get bored in no time, just like Stella did."

He winces, and I know I've hit a few nerves. But if he wants me to stop, he's going to have to stop me. Unless ...

Son of a bitch. Manipulative, passive-aggressive _bastard_. I get up off the couch and walk into the kitchen for a second. Get a glass, get some water, drink it down. Then I walk back into the living room. He's staring at the empty glasses on the coffee table.

"What the fuck are you doing, Fraser?"

"I -- nothing. I'm not doing anything."

"Exactly. You're just sitting there, taking it. Letting me work up a real good head of steam. And eventually, I'll say something so bad, so _wrong_, that we got nowhere else to go. I'm not playing that game, Fraser. I'm not letting you break us up to punish yourself. And I'm not letting you make me hate you, either. Stop fucking with my head. Just stop it."

He looks up at me then. "I'm not fu-- I'm not doing that."

"You can't even say it, can you?"

"I don't see how that's relevant in any way to this discussion."

"You can't say it. What did you call it, when you decided to come over here at night? Did you think 'Perhaps now would be an opportune time to see whether Ray would care to have intercourse with me'?"

He gets that stubborn-hurt look on his face. "I don't appreciate you making fun of me."

"You opened Pandora's box, pal. I fight dirty. Look -- I need honesty here. Not to sound like a Billy Joel song or anything, but that's what I need from you -- if we don't at least have that, we don't have anything left."

"Billy who?"

"Don't start. Okay, back to my question. Why her and not me?"

"I -- I don't know."

"Of _course_ you know, Fraser, you're the only one who can. You got a problem with guys?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question."

"Jesus. Maybe I need some sort of translator here. Does it bother you that I'm evidently queer? Are you skeeved out at the thought of two men kissing?"

"I -- 'skeeved out'?"

"Benton, so help me God ... ."

"No. I'm not -- it's not distasteful to me at all."

"Okay. Next item: you looking for some sort of kinky stuff? You need a little more danger to spice things up? I don't swing that way. And I'm not your dom, I'm not your master, I'm certainly not your daddy -" That gets a big wince. "Sorry. But -- answer the question."

"I ... no. No, I don't want that."

"Good. Great. So. You don't mind kissing men, and it's okay if I don't pretend to hate you. I know you _like_ me, and it's also pretty obvious you can get it up for my gorgeous bod, so -- what am I missing here? What more do you need?"

My mad's almost gone, I guess it helped to get it out in the open, and I start getting a little twitchy from staying still. I almost can't hear his voice when he starts to talk. "I need you to ... ."

This is progress. I walk back over and sit beside him again. "What?"

"Promise me you won't let me hurt you."

Stunned. I am flat-out stunned. When I get my voice back, I say, "Jesus H. Christ, it's a little late for that, don't you think?"

He looks ashamed. "Yes, I know. I meant - I don't want it to happen again."

"And I can't promise that, Ben. Of _course_ you're going to hurt me. I knew that going in. Love hurts. _Life_ hurts, if you're doing it right. That's how you know you're alive."

He blinks at me. I go on. "And you don't always get a say in it, either. 'Cause if you think for one minute that Assistant-State's-Attorney-Stella was a wise choice for me to set my blue-collar sights on, you're crazier than I thought."

Miraculously, that gets a smile out of him. "So now you're comparing me with Stella?"

"Yeah, but only in a good way."

"That's reassuring."

"Yeah."

"Ray, the other things you said, about Stella -- about me getting bored -- you know that's not true, don't you? That was never in my mind for a second."

"Yeah, well ... sometimes I get wound up and stuff just comes flying out of my mouth. I know you're not like that."

"Good."

We sit and stare for a minute or twelve. I got no idea what's running through his brain, but I think it's his turn now. Finally he focuses on me again, and does a little smile like he used to.

"Ray?"

"I'm still right here."

"I don't know what comes next."

"What do you mean?"

He half-shrugs, looks uncomfortable, and says, "The situation is completely unknown to me. I don't know how to redress the wrongs I have done you."

I run that through my internal translator twice, and I still don't get what he means. "Which situation are we talking about, Fraser?"

"I can see that I caused you considerable pain through my inability to tell you how I felt. I sincerely regret that, but somehow that doesn't seem to be enough. And I can't see how to make it right."

Sometimes I forget he's not like other people. I forget how lonely he was. I forget what a fucked-up childhood he had, compared to mine.

"Fraser, don't take this the wrong way, but -- did you ever have a girlfriend? When you were young, I mean. High-school sweetheart, anything like that?" He shakes his head. "Hunh. Boyfriend?"

Small smile. "No, not ... not as such."

"They raise 'em all stupid up there, or what? Can't believe no one ever tripped you."

"Tripped me?"

"Yeah, you know -- 'tripped you and beat you to the floor'?" He thinks about that for a second, then I see him file it under 'quaint expressions'.

"Okay, so we'll start from scratch here. People fight, Ben. Fact of life. And sometimes there's no magic formula for making everything right again. Believe me on this one, sometimes even love isn't enough. But if you're willing to really try, if you're willing to let me inside, I think we can work through this."

Christ, I sound like Oprah. "I'm really going out on a limb, here, but -- if you wanted me to argue because I was right and you were wrong, does that mean you think maybe there's a chance?"

"I think -- that is, I might -- " I hold my breath and wait. He starts again.

"I _do_ care about you, but -"

Close my eyes, exhale ... inhale, open my eyes. "But what?"

He shakes his head. For such an eloquent guy, he's got no words left when it comes to this. I can help him out, though, I think. " 'But-' how do you know you won't crash and burn again?"

He nods, then his eyes widen. "I don't know that, do I? That's what you were telling me. I _can't_ know that, and I shouldn't expect it, because it's not possible." He smiles then, just lights right up, and God help me, it takes everything I have not to grab him and kiss him unconscious.

I settle for smiling back, and it feels almost as good. "So now what?"

He laughs, and the tension in him drops down to nothing. "I have no idea." Somehow he looks happy when he says it.

"Freak. Are we partners, or more?"

Happy to worried in two seconds flat. I pushed too hard, I guess.

"It's okay, I shouldn't have asked that. Partners is enough for me. Partners and friends is all I need. Told you that already."

"It's not all you _want_, though."

"Listen, Ben, I've been wanting stuff I can't have all my life. Starting with wanting to not need glasses, so I could look like the cool kids. Sometimes I get what I want, but usually I don't. I'm kind of used to it."

"So I'm ... 20/20 vision?"

"Nah, I gave up on that one. Maybe ... a pony for Christmas, a Red Rider BB gun, and the million-dollar lotto number."

"Ah. I see." His tone of voice says he doesn't, though.

"Okay, listen, here's what we can do. Back to normal; friends and partners, I'll shut up about ponies and stuff -- how's that sound?"

"If that's what you want, Ray, it's fine."

"Dammit, Benton, why can't you ever give me a straight answer? I'm trying to tell you you're in charge. I'm trying to tell you it doesn't _matter_ what I want."

"How can it not matter, when what you _want_ is what caused the problem in the first place?"

I stare at him. He realizes what he's said, and turns red. Then he looks away from me. "Ray, I'm so sorry. That was ... inexcusable."

"No. No, it wasn't. It was _honest_, which is what I've been trying to tell you that you need to be more of with me."

He doesn't answer that, just stares at the wall. Then he says, "Ray, how did you know?"

"What?"

"How did you know you were ... in love with me?"

"God, Ben, you sure you want to do this?" He nods, finally looking at me again. "Okay, well ... you ever read any Heinlein?"

One eyebrow goes sky-high, and I can see he wants to ask if it's 'germane.' "The science fiction writer? No, I don't believe so."

"We had a real progressive English teacher when I was in high school, and he gave us Stranger in a Strange Land. Scandalized all the parents 'cause of the dirty bits, but I got hooked on the guy. You want to know what his definition of love is?"

"Certainly."

"It's when the other person's happiness becomes more important than your own. That's how you know. That's how _I_ knew. Does that help?"

"It ... does. Yes. Ray, she -- Victoria -- she said she loved me and hated me both. And I knew what that meant, because at the end I felt the same way about her. But now I think ... it was lust, it was passion, it was need and guilt and want and obsession ... but it couldn't have been love. Not the kind that lasts. And all this time, I've been waiting for that feeling to come back again, and hoping it wouldn't. I thought ... "

"What?"

"I didn't want to feel that way about _you_. And I suppose -- I thought it was the only option."

So that explains a lot right there. Jesus. "And now? You still think that?"

He shakes his head. "No, I think ... I like your version better. I think I ... understand it."

"Yeah?" It sounds promising, but he never just comes out and says what he means, and damned if I'm going to guess. "Understand it like ... _inside_ you?"

He nods. "Yes."

Feels like I can breathe again, although I didn't even realize I was having a problem with it. I reach over and grab his hand, and he twists his wrist around so our fingers mesh. His thumb rubs over the back of mine, and it feels better than ten blow-jobs. I start to smile; I just can't help it. "Okay, then. We're good. And it's getting on for late, so at the risk of repeating myself, now what?"

"Well, I'll take you up on that ride in a few moments, if it's convenient. I need to walk Diefenbaker -- he's been inside since before dinner. Would you ... care to join me? Walking Dief, I mean. He ... misses you."

"Yeah? The wolf misses me?" My smile's about to crack my face in half. "Sure, we can do that."

"And it occurs to me that if I'm to be staying overnight with any kind of frequency, Dief might like an old blanket to sleep on, and a water bowl."

Wow. Way to take an idea and run with it. "I think I can arrange that."

"Good," he says. "And also I thought -- if it wouldn't 'skeeve you out' too terribly --"

I look over at him, and I can see he's scared, just like I am. And I know, even if he doesn't, that this wasn't the last fight we'll have, not hardly. But I also know he's worth it.

"Take the chance," I say, and he leans over and kisses me, real soft.

It's a good start.  
  
---


End file.
